


The Castle of Sparks and Starlight

by LovelyLessie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Fantasy, Gen, Howl's Moving Castle, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLessie/pseuds/LovelyLessie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a jeweler's son falls under a curse by a wicked warlock; finds his fortune as a housekeeper in the castle of an enigmatic wizard, his apprentice, and his pet fire demon; and inadvertently alters the fate of the kingdom. Based on Howl's Moving Castle (both the book by Diana Wynne Jones and the Hayao Miyazaki movie) and the picture found at http://-wondersmith.tumblr.com/image/24052812463</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Dean Runs Into Trouble

The sound of the train whistle nearby startled Dean awake, and he shook himself, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. He hadn't realized he'd dozed off; the sun must have made him sleepy. Yawning, he pushed away his tools and turned to look at the clock. It was almost three, and it occurred to him that Sammy would be on his break soon. If he went now, he could probably catch the trolley downtown and meet him.

He stood up and stretched, pulling open the drawer of his work bench and sweeping the silver inside to lock it up. His father would be downstairs working, yes, but he was always very careful to make sure the silver was locked up regardless. 

“I'm going to go see Sam,” he called to the shop at large as he came down the stairs. “I'll be back soon.”

His father grunted an indistinct reply from the workroom in the back of the shop, and Dean decided that was the best he would get, so with that he walked out the door and jogged down the street towards the trolley tracks.

Dean was the oldest of three sons, and as a result he was the one who was left working in the shop after his brothers had gone off to make their fortunes. He didn't mind it, exactly—the shop had been his mother's, and now that she was gone he felt that it was his responsibility to keep making jewelry to sell. Particularly now, since his father was being paid to make weapons for the King's army instead. Mary would never have wanted her shop to be selling swords and knives, and while they needed the money from the weapons, the least Dean could do was keep doing what she would have done.

The second son, Sam, was working in downtown Market Chipping as an apprentice to a baker, and the third, their half-brother Adam, had been apprenticed as well, to a wizard in a village halfway across the valley, an old friend of their father's. They were both very useful and respectable trades, and well done for the sons of a jeweler and a smith. Sam would have solid work and meet a girl with whom he could settle down, and Adam would be able to make his fortune.

In the meantime, Dean would inherit the shop from his father when John retired, and make jewelry like his mother would have wanted. Which was exactly what was expected of the oldest son. And which wasn't a bad thing—it was a nice shop, in a nice town, and nice work. He didn't have very much to complain about, so he didn't complain. Much.

Still, he thought as he jumped up to catch the trolley just before it left, it would be nice—for a change—to do something a little less mundane. 

~

It was very busy downtown when Dean stepped off the trolley in Market Square; the streets were crowded with people celebrating May Day and uniformed soldiers leaning against the walls and drinking. The skyline was bright with flags and streamers all the way to the edge of town, and even the hills outside were bright with flowers and decorations. 

Only the castle marred the view from the center of town—a hulking, lopsided black shape perched just over the ridge to the east. It was partly cloaked in mist even late in the afternoon, with smoke spilling from its chimneys, blocking the otherwise clear, blue sky.

The castle belonged to a wizard who was said to be named Castiel, and it had been in the foothills of the valley for months, moving around ominously, but never coming closer than that ridge. Rumors were everywhere about the castle and its owner: some said he was visiting towns across the valley and stealing the souls of the townspeople, or else eating their hearts; others said he was planning to make a challenge on the Warlock of the Wastelands as the resident magical force. 

No one knew anything for sure, except that they were content to stay far away from the castle, and for it to stay far away from them.

Personally, Dean was annoyed about the castle, and more annoyed that it was lurking so close to town on May Day. It was probably part of why so many of the local soldiers were armed and dressed today, instead of just walking around like normal people.

Not that he was against the king's men being in Market Chipping to protect the people, of course. But when he ducked into the shortcut he usually took to reach the bakery and ran straight into two soldiers leaning against the wall, he couldn't help feeling a little resentful that they happened to be there now.

“Look at this,” said the younger of the two, a square-faced man with a bushy mustache and a cold look in his eyes. “In a hurry, kiddo?”

“Uh,” Dean said, taking a step backwards. 

“You're scaring him,” said the other soldier, looming closer. There was something very nasty about his smile. “What's the rush, big guy? Not scared of the King's own soldiers, are ya?”

“The only thing scary about you is your breath,” Dean told him, leaning back.

The soldier's mouth twisted into a scowl and his eyes narrowed. “You think you're funny?” he demanded.

“I think I'm hilarious,” Dean replied with a cocky grin, even though he was backing away. He liked to think he was tough, but there were two of them and one of him, and they were armed. Much as he hated to admit it, he was a little nervous. 

“Well I think you're a pain in the arse,” snarled the soldier, stomping towards Dean, furious.

“Alright, that's enough,” said a voice, and Dean turned.

A man had appeared behind him as if out of nowhere, dressed in silk and velvet, looking at the soldiers with the brightest, bluest eyes Dean had ever seen in his life. Dean stared, taking in the man—black pants and a blindingly white shirt, gold jewelry around his neck, and a blue cloak over his shoulders. His dark hair fell in his face in a sweeping curve and his mouth curved into the faintest hint of a smile as he looked at Dean.

“I've been looking everywhere for you,” he said. His voice was startlingly low and rough. Dean opened his mouth to ask what the man was talking about, but the man gave him a meaningful look to shut him up before turning to the soldiers. “You can go now.”

“But he--” growled the older soldier, looking outraged.

The man stepped forward, holding up a hand, and reached out to press his fingers to first one soldier's forehead, then the other. The soldiers both straightened and turned to march stiffly past them, towards Market Square.

“What was that?” Dean said, staring.

The man turned to him. “Just a little basic enchantment,” he said calmly, smiling. “Come on, this way. Where is it you were headed?”

“I don't need an escort!” Dean protested.

“Of course you don't,” agreed the man, putting a hand on his shoulder and nudging him gently down the alley. “I'm sure you could have handled those soldiers just fine on your own.” He turned and gave Dean a knowing look, and Dean scowled. “Speaking of which, what exactly did you say to them?”

“Told the taller one his breath smelled,” Dean admitted.

The man chuckled. “Are you so sharp-tongued with everyone you meet?”

Dean thought about that. “Only the ones who couldn't kill me with a nasty look,” he said.

“Wise of you,” the man said, nodding. It was clear that he was perfectly aware Dean meant him. Dean was about to ask who he was, but before he could the man's hand tightened on his shoulder. “Don't look now, but we're being followed,” he said in a much softer voice, and began to walk just slightly faster.

Dean didn't turn his head, but he looked at their shadows on the ground and saw more behind them, hunched figures uncomfortable close on their heels. “What are they?” he whispered.

“You could say they're a message from an old friend,” the man replied. “I should apologize, I may have led you into danger.”

“Right,” Dean said. “What do we do?”

“Hang on,” the man said, shifting his hand to Dean's other shoulder and tightening his fingers.

“For what?” Dean asked.

“No,” the man replied calmly, “hang on.”

Dean started to ask what he meant, and then it hit him. He grabbed the man's shoulder with his hand and was about to ask what he was going to do when the man suddenly broke into a run. Dean stumbled, caught himself, and jogged to keep up, before--

The man jumped, and Dean screamed as he found himself suddenly ten feet off the ground and rising higher. “Relax,” the man said in his ear, reaching up to take his hand. “I've got you.”

“Put me down!” Dean said, feeling sick. Below them he could see the things that had been following them—black, gooey-looking constructs that must have been made by another magician. “Well, first get me away from those, but then put me down!”

“Calm down,” the man said, grabbing his other hand. “I won't drop you if you stay still but if you keep thrashing like that I can't make any promises.”

Dean went rigid.

The man sighed. “I suppose that's better. Where was it you were going?”

“Cesari's,” Dean managed, glancing down again and regretting it at once; they were all the way above the rooftops, high enough that the people looked like insects. At least he could no longer see the constructs. 

“I'll take you there,” the man said, and started walking through the air, his cape flying out behind him in the wind. “Come on, do it with me, it's easy. Just one foot forward and...”

Dean closed his eyes and stepped forward. 

“Now the other,” the man said, and Dean took another step. “There you go, don't be afraid, it's just fine. You've got it!”

It was still terrifying, and Dean only reluctantly opened his eyes to see where they were, but he felt more in control when he was moving his feet, even if he wasn't. Besides, the magician's calm demeanor and his hands on Dean's was at least some comfort.

Still, it was much to his relief when they landed lightly on the balcony on the second story of the bakery. 

“I would stay inside for a while,” the man said seriously, turning to face Dean. “I'll lead them away from here, to make sure it's safe. I'm sure you can defend yourself, but you should be careful about getting mixed up in that kind of magic.”

“Thank you,” Dean said, staring, and before he could say any more the man hopped up onto the balcony railing and dropped out of sight.

“Dean?” asked a voice from behind him, and he turned to see Sam standing in the doorway, gaping at him. “How did you get up here?”

“Uh,” Dean said, blinking. “Flew.”

“Flew?” Sam repeated incredulously. “How—you hate flying! You won't even ride on a hoverplane!”

“It was a wizard,” Dean explained, leaning against the railing. “And I didn't have much choice.” He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “Let's go inside, I'll tell you the whole story.”


	2. In Which There Is an Unprecedented Amount of Magic

 “There's something I should tell you before you start telling me _your_ story,” Sam said as they sat down in the storeroom on wooden crates. Dean had a cream cake in one hand and a slice of freshly-baked pie in the other, and he was nibbling at them each in turn.

“What's that?” he asked with his mouth full.

Sam looked away, looking very much not like himself. “Listen, Dean, I'm...not actually Sam. I'm Adam.”

Dean stared at him blankly. “Huh?”

“It's a spell,” his brother explained. “We came up with the plan together, he had the idea months ago, and then I worked it out from Bobby's books.”

“Oh,” Dean said, blinking. “How long has it been you, and not Sam?”

“Almost a month,” Adam explained, somewhat apologetically. “I think we all know he's more suited to wizardry than I am, and besides, I'd much rather be in town than out at a wizard's cabin miles from anywhere.”

Dean laughed at that. “Yes, I guess so. And Sam is probably happier there, himself—you know how much he fights with Father. The farther apart they are, the better, I imagine.”

“You've got a point,” Adam agreed, grinning with Sam's teeth. “Now, tell me about this wizard. What happened?”

Quickly, Dean explained: the soldiers, the wizard's timely appearance, the constructs, and flying to the bakery. Adam listened with wide eyes to the whole thing, and it occurred to Dean that it was true, he really wasn't suited to magic; he'd always been much more firmly grounded in the mundane than the older brothers were.

“I'm glad you're okay,” Adam said when Dean had finished. “Wizards can be dangerous!”

“Of course they can,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “But it doesn't matter, I'm fine.”

“Yes, but you might not have been,” Adam reminded him. “What if it had been the wizard Castiel?”

“I don't think the wizard Castiel would have wanted much to do with me,” Dean said. “Doesn't he usually go after virgins?”

“ _Dean!”_ Adam said, glaring. “It's not funny. You have to be more careful.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean said. “I'll try to stay out of trouble.”

“So what is it you came to see me for?” Adam asked, changing the subject quickly.

Dean shook his head. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Of course, I thought you were Sam, but the point still stands.”

“I've been fine,” Adam said, shrugging. “I like it here. And Sam must be doing alright himself—I haven't heard from him, but I think Bobby hasn't figured it out yet, so he must be okay.” He frowned, giving Dean a look. “How have _you_ been? Father hasn't been making you work too hard, has he?”

“No,” Dean said quickly. “Of course not.”

Adam gave him a skeptical look—a familiar expression on Sam's face—but instead of questioning it, he just said, “I'm glad to hear that, at least.”

Someone stuck his head around the door. “Hey, Sam!” he called. “The ovens are ready for the next batch!”

“I'll be right there,” Adam called back, and stood up. “I'd better get back to work, I guess,” he told Dean. “Are you going to be okay walking home now?”

“I'll be fine,” Dean said. “Maybe I better go out the back way, though—I'll do whatever I can to avoid running into any more of those constructs.”

“Good idea,” Adam said. “Be careful, alright?”

Dean got up. “Course I will,” he said as he crossed the room to the back door. “I'll talk to you later.”

Adam walked with him to the doorway. “Don't let Dad push you around too much,” he said, and Dean laughed. “And stay out of trouble!”

Dean waved over his shoulder and turned away as the door closed and Adam disappeared back inside. He would have to write a letter to the real Sam, he thought. It was a shame he was so far away—he'd always been closest to Sam, and he would miss being able to visit him on breaks—but he thought Sam was probably happier there, learning something more interesting than how to make cream cakes and pies.

“I'll write one tomorrow morning,” he said to himself decisively as he reached Market Square. “Then I can get it in the post over lunch.”

He wriggled his way across the square through the crowd just in time to meet the trolley as it stopped, and he hopped on, leaning against the railing and looking out at the sky, where the sun was sinking lower in the sky, shining gold through the low clouds that had come in. 

The moving castle had left the ridge, but he imagined he could still see it, faintly, farther off in the Wastes, a smudge of darkness in the mist. 

“How's Sam?” asked John when he returned to the shop.

“Uh, great!” Dean said quickly, grinning. “He's great.”

“Good.” John finished sealing up the package of supplies he was preparing and set it on the floor with two other boxes. “I've got to run these supply shipments out to be taken to Kingsbury—I want to be sure they'll get out tomorrow morning. Keep an eye on the shop, alright?”

“Of course I will,” Dean said. “You know you can count on me.”

He ran upstairs to get the silver, and carried it downstairs with his toolbox so he could work at the counter in the shop while his father was out. He was nearly done with the pair of earrings he'd been working on, and he wanted to at least finish them before he turned in for the night.

It was closing time before John got back from taking the last package, so Dean locked up the shop but still sat at the counter with the lamps on so he could open the door when John returned. It had been a quiet evening anyways and he didn't expect anyone was going to come by; the only place things were still happening was downtown. 

He was startled when he heard the door shake and looked up to see a man standing in the shop, glaring around at the shelves. “Uh, excuse me, sir,” he said, frowning as he got to his feet. “The shop is closed.”

Slowly the man turned to him, a smirk scrawled across his face. “Isn't this supposed to be a smith's shop?” he asked. “Don't you have anything  _ fun _ for sale?”

“I don't know what you mean,” Dean said, walking around the counter and stopping at the edge. “I just know the shop is closed, like I said. You'll have to come back tomorrow—maybe my father can help you.”

“Oh, don't be stupid,” said the man. “My business here will be done now.”

“No,” Dean said stubbornly, stepped forward. “It really won't. You'll have to leave now and come back tomorrow.”

“Are you  _ threatening _ me?” the man asked, laughing and coming closer. “You're a brave little child. Clearly you need to be taught a lesson.”

Dean glowered at him and then turned away to cross the shop and push open the door. “And you need to be taught how to stay out of closed shops,” he snapped. “Leave.”

“Well,” said the smirking man, “if you insist.”

He flew at Dean—actually flew, his feet nearly a foot off the ground and what looked like shadows spread out behind him in the shape of wings. Dean yelped and threw up his hands as a sudden gust of wind tore through the shop, but his arms were useless to defend himself as the man—the  _ wizard— _ glided through him, leaving him cold and shaking.

“Good luck getting rid of that curse,” the wizard said with a nasty laugh. “Especially when you have to keep it a secret.”

Dean stared and tried to speak, but he couldn't make his throat work.

“Next time you see Castiel, give him a kiss for me,” the wizard said, and disappeared, the door slamming behind him.

Slowly, Dean raised his head. The chill had faded but now he felt heavy and achey; he wasn't sure which hurt more, his muscles or his bones. 

“A curse?” he said to himself, and found that his voice sounded foreign. He swallowed and turned, trying to run across the shop to the mirror on the wall. Instead he mostly shuffled, unable to move his feet enough to really run.

The face that looked back at him when he reached the mirror was not his own. It was old and thin and wrinkled, with white-gray hair and heavy eyes. He made a face, and the mirror made it back. With one hand he reached up to touch his cheek, running his fingers over his skin and tracing the wrinkles that had suddenly appeared there.

“He made me  _ old?” _ he demanded, feeling a little insulted. His voice rasped out of his throat. He bared his teeth at his reflection and examined how yellow and crooked they were. “Ugh,” he said, and ran his hands over his face, wondering what he was going to do.

He would have to leave home.

It was the only thing he could think of. He couldn't just stay here like this, not without explaining the curse—and the wizard had said he couldn't do that.

He shuffled to the counter and swept the silver into his toolbox, except the finished earrings, which he set in a dish of cleanser so they could be up for sale tomorrow. He would have to write a note to John or something, explaining that he had to go away. Not that he had an excuse, but he should at least explain that he was leaving of his own volition. Sort of.

The toolbox felt ten times heavier than when he'd carried it down, and getting it back up to his workshop was a nightmare. All his joints burned with the exertion of climbing the stairs with it, and even with the sheer force of will driving him it took twice the time it would have before. Still, eventually he made it up to the workshop and put his toolbox on the table, heaving a sigh of exhaustion.

“Well, that's done,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, until he remembered that the lamps were still on downstairs, and the door unlocked. “Dammit!” he grumbled, and traipsed back down the stairs, cursing himself the whole way for not thinking of it sooner.

Once he'd locked up the shop and put out the lamps, he dragged himself back up to his room and lit the lamp on his desk before collapsing in the chair.

Tomorrow morning, he decided, he would stay in his room until John had opened up shop. If he had to answer questions, he would say he was sick, that was all. And when he was sure John wouldn't come back and see him he would leave a letter on his desk and slip out the back stairs, and...

Well, he could figure that out when he got there, he decided, and it was with that plan in his head that he climbed heavily into bed and fell asleep.


End file.
